Chapter Six

THE RIDE TO TESS’S house was uneventful. Uneventful, if Tess could forget there was a killer searching for her because she’d been so unlucky to somehow connect with him. Uneventful, if Tess could disre­gard the questions Agent Wheston continued to ask from the backseat. He had insisted on riding with her and neither Tess nor Michael or even Jake could deter him. His nasally voice raked on her nerves. Tess did her best to ignore that part since she knew he was trying to find answers that would help save these kidnapped women.

Tess sat in the front and turned to look back at him a few times. Each time, his soft, easy expression barely changed. Tess thought he should play professional poker. No one would ever know what he thought. She knew she certainly didn’t. Michael held her hand as he drove. His touch kept her grounded and feeling safe.

She stared out the windshield at other cars that passed them as they followed Jake and Agent Black. Where was everyone going? To doctors’ appointments? To the grocery store? Wonderful, normal everyday activi­ties. She bet no one else was going to the home of a missing woman.

As they headed north, the sun gave way now and then to building clouds, and before long, Michael was forced to run the wipers as a soft mist fell.

“Were you ever in a coma?” Agent Wheston asked.

“No.”

“Have you ever been abused or experienced any type of head trauma?”

At the question, her seat belt choked her. The visions themselves were abuse enough. The years of being called a freak were abusive. Michael must have sensed her discomfort because he squeezed her hand. His hand was warm, and she concentrated on that warmth as she forced out, “No.”

“You said your first episode came when you touched your deceased grandmother?”

Episode? He made it sound as if they were talking about a television program. This was her life, without commercials, without sponsorship, without the opportunity to change the channel or edit out the bad stuff. Too bad, because if she could, she would certainly edit out this mur­derer.

“Yes.” Her answer was barely a whisper.

Michael cast another quick glance at her and shifted his hand to lace their fingers together. She tightened her fingers against his, imagining him enfolding her in his arms and bathing her in his warmth.

“Do you know what determines the intensity of your visions?” Wheston asked, interrupting her daydream.

Tess was quiet for a long moment as she considered his question. “I’ve often thought it’s because of how close I feel to the victims, but now I’m not sure. I was very close to my grandmother, as well as my uncle who killed her. In the past, I felt as if I’ve known some of the victims when I’ve helped Jake, but I think that’s because I had the chance to meet family members before I touched the victim.”

“What about this latest series of murders? Do you think you know one of the victims?”

Tess shook her head slowly and concentrated on the tingle Michael’s hand sent up her arm. “I don’t know any of them.” It was the truth, but she also felt as if her words were a lie because she certainly knew them after she lived their last moments.

“What about their murderer? Is it possible you know him?”

She nearly shivered and squeezed Michael’s hand as she turned slightly in her seat again to look squarely at Agent Wheston. “That’s not an easy question to answer. I feel like I do know him, but I think it’s because his victims know him.”

“Agent Black says that’s not possible.”

A memory touched Tess—white, hot, sudden, and intense, the memory of Markus Black telling Tess she tasted like cotton candy. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat and forced that memory away. “All I know is that when I have the visions, I feel as if they know him.”

“I know you said they only called him by his first name, but were there any nicknames used?”

“No. Just Raymond.” The bagel Michael had fixed her had tasted deli­cious, but now it felt like a brick in the bottom of her stomach.

The car’s temperature was comfortable, yet Tess felt cold and clammy. She knew, however, that turning up the heater wouldn’t help.

Agent Wheston’s words grew soft. “Do you feel their pain?”

Tess knew exactly what he meant, and she tried to decide if she wanted to answer. Finally, she decided that he knew everything else about her, so there was no reason to lie. “Yes, I feel what he does to them.”

Agent Wheston was quiet for a long moment, as if he needed to di­gest everything she’d told him.

Thankfully, they reached Tess’s house a few minutes later. She and Michael waited in the car with Agent Wheston while Jake and Agent Black checked out the house. When they gave the all-clear sign, Tess climbed out of the car and breathed in a deep breath of moist air. Had it only been two days since she stood in her front yard and stared at her house, longing to fill it with a family? She swallowed hard, forcing down the cold, sick feeling that the worst murderer she’d ever envisioned had almost found his way into what she always felt was her safe haven. He just hadn’t been as lucky to find her as she had him. But why?

That question raised several others. Would he recognize her if he saw her? Since he’d gone to the wrong address and taken Madelyn Prange, she assumed he wouldn’t, but that might not be true. He may have taken Madelyn simply because she’d seen him. But if he didn’t recognize her, then how had he connected with her? Did he somehow sense her within his victims, or did he see her separate from them?

Unfortunately, she didn’t have the answers to any of her questions. But regardless of how he’d sensed her, she obviously worried him. Why else would he have gone after her so quickly?

Michael suddenly stood beside her. “You can wait out here if you like, and I can pack up some clothes for you.”

His offer touched her heart. He was so observant, so in tune with her.

“What, and let you check out my underwear drawer?” she asked softly, trying to lighten her own dark mood.

He quirked a brow at her. “If you go in, can I still check out your un­derwear drawer?”

She glanced up and saw Agent Wheston, who stood several yards away, looking at them as if he’d heard their conversation. Tess had the sudden urge to burst out laughing at the thought. This must be how hysteria felt, she decided. One minute, she wanted to curl up in a corner; the next she wanted to laugh wildly.

Michael must have sensed her underlying hysteria because he put his arm around her and led her toward her front door, stating lightly, “Nice place you have here.”

Tess smiled at him. “How do you do that?”

His body brushed against her side as they moved together. “Do what?”

“Manage to sound as if I simply invited you over for lunch, like there isn’t someone running around out there who would like to stab me with his knife?”

“It’s easier when I touch you,” Michael stated.

“Please don’t stop touching me,” Tess said softly as they reached her front door, and she saw Jake waiting just inside her foyer.

“I won’t.”

He kept his promise, even staying with her in her bedroom while she threw a few sets of clothes, another pair of shoes and some toiletries into a duffel bag. But he didn’t joke any more about her underwear drawer, and oddly, that made her feel sad.

“You’re wound tighter than a drum.” Michael’s words sounded unusu­ally loud in the bedroom.

Tess paused and looked at him. “The house is so silent.”

Michael looked around, as if confused. “Isn’t it usually?”

“Not this quiet. It’s unnerving.” She quickly piled her belongings into the bag and zipped it shut. She met his gaze. “And it still feels . . . dirty, as if he’s been here even though I know that he went to the Prange house instead. I might have to get new furniture when this is over.” Assuming I can even live here, she added silently, then said aloud, “Do you think I have time to change into my own clothes? Not that yours aren’t comfortable, but I look a little, well, baggy.”

He grinned at her. “You look great in baggy, but I’m sure you can have as much time as you need to change. I’ll be right outside the door.”

He walked toward the open door, and she said, “Michael?” He turned back to her, and she nervously swiped her hands against the sweat pants she wore. “Please don’t go. Just close the door and turn your back. I don’t want to be alone in here.”

His expression grew serious. “Do you really feel as if he’s been here?”

She looked warily around the room. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the remnants of my dream. I just don’t want to be alone. I want to change fast and get out of here.”

Michael nodded, closed the door and turned to face it.

Tess couldn’t help admiring the back of him. Lean but muscular hips and thighs. Nice butt. Broad shoulders. No wonder she felt his strength when he held her. He was all strong male.

She quickly slipped out of his sweats and replaced them with clean un­dies, a pair of comfortable jeans, and a tee shirt that said: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

“I’m ready.”

Michael turned and his gaze swept down her. He grinned again. “Vegas, huh?”

“My brother lives out there, and I go to visit him. Have you ever been to Vegas?”

“No, but I’ve always wanted to.” He picked up her bag while she slipped on a hoodie and zipped it up. While he carried her bag to the front door, Tess moved to the kitchen to grab a couple of boxes of flavored tea bags to take to Michael’s house.

She opened the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the boxes. When she closed the cabinet, she was startled to find Agent Black standing there.

“Agent Black?” She found it impossible to keep her words from sounding tight when she addressed him.

He didn’t answer but stared at her. Tess started to turn away, but he stopped her by placing a hand on her arm. She looked down at his hand, barely able to tolerate his touch.

“You know, Tess,” he said, “sooner or later, we might have to talk.”

With his touch on her arm, she felt so much—his cool, professional exterior that he allowed others to see mixed with the dark part he worked so hard to keep hidden. “We don’t have anything to talk about except this case,” she said, working to keep her voice even and light.

“Four years ago, you walked out on me without a word, even re­fused my phone calls. I deserve to know why.”

She looked down at his hand again before meeting his gaze. “I re­fused to be number fifty-two,” she said.

“What?”

“That’s what I would have been, right, if I had stayed—number fifty- two?”

His silence was more than an answer. “How?” he began.

“You touched me. You kissed me. Sometimes people don’t have be dead in order for me to see things.”

She never looked away from him. He was the first to look away, and he released her arm as if touching her burned him.

Tess took the opportunity to pick up the two small boxes of tea bags and turn away. She stopped short at the sight of Michael in the kitchen doorway. Then she moved to him and took his hand. “Ready?”

“I guess.”

It was evident he questioned what he had just seen or what he might have overheard. At his car, he opened the passenger door for her. And he was kind enough to not ask any questions about Markus Black.

“Are you okay?” he asked

She climbed into the front seat. “Yep.”

He closed her door and moved to put her bag in the trunk. Then he climbed in, too. Agent Wheston followed suit and climbed into the back, and they moved on toward Oak Park.

WITH ITS BEAUTIFUL architecture of arched doorways, brick de­signs, balconies and quaint setting, Oak Park was picturesque. Despite the dreary day, people moved on the sidewalks, the trees showed a hint of spring color, and the houses appeared well cared for with balanced landscaping and tiled drives. Yet, to Tess, it felt surreal. She kept think­ing she was in the middle of a terrible nightmare, and sooner or later—hopefully sooner—she would wake up.

But as much as she wished it, she knew she wasn’t dreaming. It dis­­concerted her that the world moved on despite the fact that a killer was out there murdering women, despite the fact children were without their mother because Tess had somehow connected to that same killer.

Michael parked behind Jake and Agent Black in a driveway not far from the deserted ice rink. The house was a modest gray brick two story with an arched front door and brick steps leading the way to it. The numbers 101 graced the door, looking like ceramic stair steps. The same house number and address as her own. As Tess stared at the numbers, she thought she’d have this same odd sense of déjà vu if she were read­ing an obituary with her name in the headline.

Tess continued to stare at the house and didn’t make a move to get out of the car even though she knew she had to. After all, they’d come here at her request.

Michael looked over at her. “Tess?”

“It resembles my house a little,” she said. “The gray bricks aren’t too different in color than the stone at my house and the arched door­way looks about the same. I kept hoping it would be totally different, that somehow the killer just got a glimpse of the street name and num­ber. But even though this house is much bigger, I can see where he might have confused it with my house. Even the plants outside the front door look a little like mine.”

Michael let out a heavy breath. “Tess, this is not your fault.”

“Of course it’s my fault. If I hadn’t somehow connected with him, he would have never come after me and taken this woman by mistake.”

“If you hadn’t connected with him, we wouldn’t know anything at all about him.” He covered her hand with his. “If you don’t want to go in there, you don’t have to. I can take you home, and we’ll plant flowers in the yard or something.”

Tess closed her eyes, imagining something as mindless as planting flowers. Creating beauty sounded wonderful, but it wouldn’t be enough to erase the terror this killer had brought into her world.

“There is no way I can sit back and do nothing.” She opened her eyes and looked at Michael. “Even if you do need flowers planted. So let’s just get his over with.”

She and Michael climbed out. Michael met her gaze over the roof of the car and Tess wondered how she could be so far away from him and still feel close, still feel his warmth touch her like rays of the sun. After he lightly slammed his door, he rounded the car and joined her. She grasped Michael’s hand firmly and they followed Agent Wheston toward the front door.

The air was muggy and heavy with moisture. Still, Tess shivered.

The man who opened the door after Agent Wheston rang the bell was tall and strong, and his hair was neat and golden. His eyes were dark brown. He wore slacks and a white, button-down shirt. The sleeves were rolled up nearly to his elbows.

Yet, as handsome as he was, it wasn’t the man who caused Tess’s breath to catch. It was the baby girl in his arms. She had curly ringlets of red-blond hair, fat cheeks and eyes that matched the man’s who held her. She couldn’t have been more than a year old, and she stared at the people on her doorstep as if to say, “Okay, where’s my mommy?”

Then a whimper from closer to the floor caught Tess’s attention. There, holding onto the man’s leg was another child, a boy of perhaps three or four years old, a small replica of the man.

Tess thought her knees might buckle. It was one thing to know some­one was missing, but it was much harder to face when you saw all that was left behind. These children needed their mother. And thanks to Tess, they might never see her again.

“Officer Williams? Agent Black? Agent Wheston?” The man’s voice was rich and deep, and yet it sounded hollow at the same time. Dark circles floated beneath his eyes. Had he been up all night crying over his missing wife? Or had he merely been up all night with kids who were crying for their missing mother? His gaze moved suddenly to Tess. “Is this the psychic you called about?”

Tess could barely meet his gaze. She supposed she should be upset that she’d been called a psychic, but what other label could she have been given? Visionary of the dead? She didn’t think that one would be readily accepted by a husband with a baby in his arms.

“This is Tess Fairmont, Mr. Prange.” It was Jake who introduced her. “And this is Dr. Adams.”

“Is he a psychic, too?” Mr. Prange studied Tess for a moment be­fore turning his attention to Michael.

“He’s sort of Ms. Fairmont’s helper,” Jake replied without hesita­tion. “Can we come in?”

Prange moved out of the way, shuffling in a stiff but patient way be­cause of the child who gripped his leg. The five of them filed into the foyer. It was probably an elegant house, but children inhabited it, so it looked more lived in with toys scattered around the floor, a few dirty spots on the carpet, and a quilt protecting the sofa. There was also the subtle scent of baby powder. To Tess, it was an inviting home, one where the door opened easily to friends who understood that toys too soon disappeared and babies grew up too quickly. It was the type of home she’d love to have.

An older woman seemingly appeared out of nowhere, stretching out her arms and saying, “Give her to me, Darrin.” She easily took the baby from Prange.

“This is my mother, Sandra,” Darrin Prange said.

They murmured greetings.

Darrin looked at them with narrowed eyes. “Do you really think your coming here will help? Shouldn’t you be out looking for my wife?”

Tess had started to wonder the same thing after she’d stepped into the house and felt nothing but pain and grief, a sense of loss combined with worry and fatigue. Sandra took the baby out of the room. Tess watched them leave, noticing then that another child, a girl of about nine or ten stood silent and still in the doorway. She watched them with large, round brown eyes. Like the baby and the little boy, this sad-eyed girl was beautiful. She was also old enough to understand that bad things hap­pened to people, and she obviously missed her mother.

Another wave of guilt hit Tess. She had to help this family. It was be­cause of her these children were missing their mother.

Jake cleared his throat before telling Darrin Prange, “Right now, we’re doing everything we can.”

“Of course, you are,” Darrin replied, his voice laced with sarcasm.

Jake leaned close and quietly spoke in Tess’s ear. “See what you can do.”

She slipped her hand from Michael’s and moved away toward the liv­ing room. She met Darrin’s sorrowful gaze. “Where was your wife when she was taken?”

“You’re the psychic, don’t you know?” It was obvious from Darrin’s sarcastic tone that he didn’t believe in her talent or want her here.

“Every piece of information helps,” she replied softly.

Darrin glared at her, but she met his gaze steadily. Finally, he let out a heavy breath. “There were broken picture frames and that funky thing she dusts with on the floor in the living room.”

Tess walked into the living room, trying to force herself to relax. Wasn’t that how she had the best visions, when she was relaxed? Sud­denly, she wasn’t so sure it made a difference. She really had no control over the visions. They simply came when they wanted.

There was no glass or funky dusting thing on the floor, but there were two picture frames on the mantle that had no glass. Tess took a deep breath and touched them. Then she took one in her hands, concen­trating on forming a vision, just as she did when she took a victim’s hand.

She stood still and quiet, concentrating on her breathing as she stared at the picture in the glassless frame. The five people in the photo­graph stared back at her, their faces taken up with big smiles—Darrin, his three children, a woman with dark hair and an easy smile. They looked happy and carefree sitting in the front yard of this house. The season was fall, with colorful leaves scattered around them.

But no matter how hard she concentrated, she felt nothing, saw noth­ing. What good was this “gift” if she couldn’t use it when she needed to? she thought in frustration.

With gentle care, she replaced the frame on the mantle and reached for another one, this one with glass in it. She now stared down at a photo­graph of Darrin and Madelyn Prange, although both looked a bit younger than the family picture.

No vision came to her. But something else did. It was that locker room smell she recognized from the killer’s house. It mixed with that odd sense of unclean that Tess had felt after she’d connected with him. The same feeling she’d experienced when she was in his house.

She closed her eyes and lightly ran her fingertips along the edge of the frame. There was no mistake, the killer had touched this frame. He had been in this room. She knew his scent couldn’t linger, couldn’t still be here, and yet she could still smell him. Just as she recognized the killer’s lingering essence, she realized that her visions were filled with sensations, smells, and even sounds. Now, when she thought of the killer’s house, she remembered hearing the pump filtering the fish aquar­ium. The memory of that scraping sound as he sharpened a knife . . .

“Are you really psychic?”

Darrin had spoken from right behind her. Tess started and nearly dropped the photograph. She’d been so busy concentrating on trying to pick up something that might lead them to the killer that she hadn’t realized the man had approached her.

“Something like that.” Tess didn’t put down the photograph nor did she look up at him. She didn’t want to seem unkind or cold, but she didn’t want to break her concentration.

“And this is more than just a missing person, isn’t it?” There was pain in Darrin’s voice. “Otherwise, the police would wait twenty-four hours before even looking into it, wouldn’t they? I’ve heard of those other murders. You think the man who took Maddie is that killer, don’t you?”

For the first time, Agent Wheston spoke from the doorway. “If you could please give her some space, Mr. Prange. Rest assured, we’re check­ing every avenue.”

Tess was glad for Agent Wheston’s interruption. Darrin Prange’s whirlwind of fear and grief left her with a slight headache at the base of her skull. After another deep breath, she looked down at the photograph again.

“What the hell kind of answer is that? Do you even have any clues? What other ‘avenues’ have you checked out?”

“Mr. Prange?” Markus Black said. “May I speak with you in the kitchen?”

Darrin glared at Markus and looked as if he’d refuse, but then he sud­denly deflated like a pricked balloon and nodded.

Tess watched them go. The little girl still stared at them from the doorway. Tess met her gaze. She looked like her mother.

“You’re going to find my mom, aren’t you?” The child’s voice was small but strong.

“We’re going to do our best,” Tess replied softly. She didn’t dare make a promise she might not be able to keep. She looked back at the photograph and placed three fingers against the glass.

Yes, he’d touched this picture, and he’d spoke to Madelyn.

As soon as she realized that, the vision hit her. Madelyn was on the floor, on her back, the feather duster falling from her grasp slightly. He’d done something to her—injected her with a drug? Tess wasn’t sure.

And what did he say? Something about if her husband knew she’d ac­tually spent the day before with him. It wasn’t so much what he said as the way he said it that convinced Tess that he’d thought Madelyn was her.

Tess carefully replaced the photograph and crouched down, tenta­tively putting both palms on the floor as she worked to ignore the little’s girl’s hopeful, trusting look as she watched Tess.

She felt the child’s feelings almost as strongly, if not stronger than, the remnants of Madelyn’s and her kidnapper’s and Darrin’s. The young girl mentally pleaded for Tess to find her mother and bring her home.

The wood floor was cool beneath her touch, but then like the hand of a victim, it grew warm. Unfortunately, no vision came, yet the heat gave her clues.

Yes, Madelyn had lain here, conscious but stunned or drugged, una­ble to move.

Yes, her kidnapper, the murderer of several women, had spoken to her.

Yes, Madelyn’s fear was overwhelming, but it was for the baby girl who slept in her crib upstairs.

And then Tess heard him say, “Does your wonderful husband know what a slut you are? Does he know you creep into other people’s homes and spy on them?”

As he spoke, the killer’s voice seemed to scream in her head. It hurt Tess’s ears and her mild headache turned into a full, throbbing pain that forced her to close her eyes as the killer said, “I don’t know how you found me, but while I’m taking the gang west, you can tag along and camp and hike with the rest of us!”

Madelyn Prange stared up at him in terror and whimpered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

She doesn’t look anything like me, Tess thought, but he still thought she was me. It proved that even though he’d somehow connected with her enough to see her address, he hadn’t seen her face.

The voice had stopped, and Tess pulled away from the floor. There wasn’t even any lingering echo of his voice in the room, but she nearly moaned at the assault of emotions that continued to rake through her. Terror, pain from hitting the floor, frustration at the inability to move, worry over the baby and the children at school . . . Tess felt the after­math of every emotion Madelyn Prange had felt and decided she could have been run over by a truck and felt less. She couldn’t fight down the shudder that moved through her. All she wanted was to get out of this house, curl up somewhere, close her eyes to the horror, and sleep for three or four days.

Tess looked at Wheston. “He’s heading west. He’s still talking about camping and hiking. He’s got a definite destination in mind. Maybe you should check out campgrounds and stores that sell outdoor gear.”

“Why would he talk about camping or hiking? Campgrounds aren’t open yet,” Agent Wheston pointed out.

Tess had to work to keep from laughing, knowing it would be hysteri­cal laughter. “I don’t know, but since he’s not playing by any rules, I doubt that will stop him.” Then she moved to the door. She had to get out of here before her knees gave out.

At the front door, Darrin Prange stopped her. “Did he hurt her? Could you see if he hurt her?”

Tess stared at him for a long moment, as if drugging her and taking her from her home, away from her obviously loving husband and chil­dren wasn’t enough to cause pain. But she understood his question. “He drugged her so she couldn’t fight him. But, no, he did nothing else that I can see besides carry her out to his van.”

“So she was still alive when he took her from here?” Darrin swal­lowed hard enough that Tess saw his throat move. He was grasping for straws, searching for hope. She couldn’t blame him.

“Yes.” She was being honest. She only hoped this psychopath didn’t kill Madelyn Prange out of anger when he discovered he had the wrong woman.

Once she was in the car, Tess leaned her head against the headrest, still drained. Michael didn’t grasp her hand, but he did reach across the seat and place his hand over hers like a cozy blanket.

From the backseat, Agent Wheston fired questions at her. Tess didn’t have to open her eyes to know he was writing in his notebook. She heard the scribble of his pen on the paper between answers.

“What did you see?

“What did you feel?

“Did you smell any unusual odors?

“Did you hear actual voices?

“Did you feel hot or cold or numb or clammy?

“Did you feel as if you floated over your body?

“Was it like you were the cameraman in a movie or were you actu­ally one of the actors?”

Before now, Tess hadn’t realized how the sound of his voice raked on her nerves. Her head still pounded, and his barrage of questions was making it worse.

“Can’t you see she needs a few moments to recoup? Give it a rest, Agent Wheston, or you can get out and walk.” Michael’s voice was calm but firm in his threat.

Tess nearly laughed. She could just imagine how it would look if Michael booted Agent Wheston out of the car. Maybe then she’d have some peace. Right then, her entire insides quivered, and if she had to stand up, her legs probably wouldn’t hold her. If she didn’t know better, she’d think a million tiny spiders crawled through her body making her feel a lot like the antsy feeling she’d had after connecting with the killer. She was glad Michael continued to rest his hand over hers so she didn’t have to see or feel her hands shaking. She wondered if the killer felt anything right now. She certainly hoped she was able to shred his nerves as easily as he did hers.

“Are you okay?” Michael’s words were soft, and the pressure of his hand increased.

Tess had to clear her throat before she could reply. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be okay again. I think I’m going to just keep quivering and shaking until I break into a million pieces, if the top of my head doesn’t pop off first.”

“I’ll take you home and you can relax, let go of all of this for a while.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, mixed with some strong head­ache medicine.”

“And maybe something good to eat, too.”

“I don’t know if that’s such a great idea.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Chocolate has a way of working miracles some­times.” Tess didn’t have to look at him to know he grinned. She felt it. “I need to stop for gas, though. Is that all right?”

She finally looked at him. “Of course.”

Michael glanced into the rearview mirror. “Agent Wheston, let Jake know we’re stopping, would you?”

Agent Wheston pulled out his cell phone and called Agent Black to confirm.

Tess leaned toward Michael. “Do you think they have to confirm with one another before they go the bathroom?” She spoke softly, but didn’t really care if Agent Wheston heard her.

“Probably.” Michael grinned again, and this time Tess saw it.

Agent Wheston said. “Just pull into the next station.”

Michael did, maneuvering smoothly across traffic.

“Tess, do you feel as if you connected with the killer when you were in the Prange house?” Agent Wheston asked.

“No,” Tess took a deep breath, wishing her headache would lighten up. It didn’t. “No, what I felt at the Prange house was nothing like what I felt yesterday. But I do feel exhausted and antsy, like I did when I connected with him.”

“Anything else out of the ordinary?” Agent Wheston asked.

“The smell,” Tess confessed as Michael turned off the engine.

“Smell?” Michael asked.

“I keep smelling the killer’s house. It’s like I can’t get it out of my nose. Even at the Prange house, I could smell him, like he was still there,” she explained. “And my head hurts really bad.”

“Do you often get headaches after your visions?” Agent Wheston asked.

“Yes, but never like this.” Tess rubbed the back of her neck.

Michael looked over the seat at Wheston. “Do you think you could go in and get her something for her headache while I fill the tank?”

“I’ll be right back.” Agent Wheston got out of the car at the same time Michael did.

Tess watched him stride toward the station’s quick mart. She glanced out the back window at Michael, who opened the gas tank cover. He smiled at her through the window before he turned and reached for the pump.

Tess offered him a small smile. Then she took a deep breath and closed her eyes, forcing herself to relax. More than just her head, her entire body ached, as if her experience at the Prange home had somehow left her beaten.

She closed out the noise around her, the muffled sounds of traffic, the radio playing in the car two pumps away, the slam of a car door. It all faded into silence. Then she thought she felt and heard the rumble of the engine—strange, Michael didn’t have the car running. He wasn’t fin­ished pumping the gas.

The smell touched her—that odor that made her wrinkle her nose, the unclean, locker room smell.

When she finally opened her eyes, she was no longer in Michael’s car . . .